


And Mend

by shebephoebe



Series: Ben&Bea [4]
Category: Much Ado About Nothing (David T/Catherine T), Much Ado About Nothing - Shakespeare
Genre: F/M, Grief, It is a gift, Loving Marriage, Post-Canon, and I had all I could do not to cry while writing it, could I have a little angst?, look this came to me during a very boring sermon in church
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 22:02:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28856283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shebephoebe/pseuds/shebephoebe
Summary: Based on the stage production of Much Ado About Nothing with David Tennant and Catherine Tate. If you haven't watched it, do so; I do not do it justice in the least. Characterizations are based on character interpretations from that production (including the new character, Beatrice's aunt Imogen). Shout out to my writing buddy Ruby for helping further develop the characters and storyline. We have Lore.Story is set following the events of the play. In this case: close to a decade after.
Relationships: Beatrice/Benedick (Much Ado About Nothing)
Series: Ben&Bea [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2098035
Kudos: 10





	And Mend

Bendick finally understood the saying “silent as the grave”. Nothing stirred in the church cemetery; no birds sang in the orderly trees spaced at intervals among the stones. He couldn’t even hear the sea from here.  
The little mound of earth before him hardly looked like a grave. It just looked unnatural. It wasn’t right. His son was too small to fill a grave.  
The mourners had left he didn’t know how long ago. They’d offered their warmth to the cemetery, filled it with music, trampled the cropped grass, lent the area some life for a spell. Most of their faces had been a blur, voices muffled, hands too cold on his, but he’d noticed his father. His father’s face had been painfully distinct. His father had done this once before: buried a child.  
Benedick did not know how his father had borne the pressure of it. It crowded out all other senses until even his heartbeat was almost more than he could bear.  
For several minutes, Benedick didn’t even register Beatrice’s presence. Even that was unnatural. She could not enter a room without all eyes marking her. Now she had settled on the unforgiving earth behind him, pressing her shoulder to his back, lending him a little warmth, thawing his soul enough for him to come up for air.  
She was his sea: salt and sharp breezes and the singing of the tides. Like breakers against a cliff she patiently pressed against him until he yielded. Then her arms were about him. Legs folded, Benedick leaned against the sureness of her.  
The church bell tolled and he hated the finality of its tone.  
Beatrice shifted behind him, stretching out her legs to one side. She was just starting to show her pregnancy: their fourth child. A child who would never know one of its siblings. A child they ought to be celebrating.  
Life plodded on. Why couldn’t it wait a moment or two? Why did life not yield to grief?  
“My aunt and uncle will take Alex and Tricia with them. As long as we need.”  
It was a minute before Benedick stirred enough to nod. “They’ll enjoy Messina.”  
He felt more than heard Beatrice’s hum of agreement.  
Unmeasured time passed before she said, “Perhaps they can stay there until the baby comes.”  
Benedick considered a house without children in it and shuddered. No Alex arguing with his sister and losing every time. No Patricia chattering all hours of the day and night about whatever came to mind, demanding the whole family listen and have opinions about birds and stars and the color green.  
No Orlando.   
None of his questions. He had taken so long to start talking, but when he did it was almost as much as his sister. Every day they battled to be heard.  
No more of his sandcastles, constructed with utmost care and a furrowed brow.  
No more of his sea-green eyes, bright with joy whenever Benedick got him up in the morning. It was rarely Papa he was excited to see, but breakfast. He was addicted to bananas and peanut butter. They’d started to fear he’d never eat anything else.  
No hugs. No more of his pudgy toddler arms wrapped tightly about Benedick’s neck, knowing that Benedick would not put him down for his nap until the hug was over.  
He should never have put him down.  
Benedick bent double, gasping for breath. Without his wife’s arms about him, this grief would surely drag him down into his own grave, there beside his baby.   
He wept. It did nothing for the pressure on his chest, only racked at his body, determined to make a ruin of him. There would never be an end of weeping.  
Beatrice’s forehead touched his, her tears mingling with his own. He clung to her.  
“Serve God,” she whispered. “Love me.” Her voice cracked with sorrow. “And mend.”


End file.
